By Petro Marko
Part Two
-THE CALVARY BEGINS-
Memorie.al / The accounts of the well-known writer Petro Marko – former fighter of the International Brigades in the Spanish Civil War and in Tirana – reveal the behind-the-scenes of what is known as the National Liberation Anti-Fascist War and why Koçi Xoxe hated Enver Hoxha. The instruction from Sejfulla Maleshova: “This is a terrorist party; do not open your mouth, or you will suffer for it…” Why Petro Marko was sentenced, who prepared his arrest, and who helped him after his release from prison, etc. Selected excerpts from the book “Interview with Myself” by the renowned Albanian writer Petro Marko, published in the early 1990s after the collapse of the communist regime – a book that had a great echo in the press of the time, being published and republished several times, marking a sales record.
Continued from the previous issue
The door opened. A large-bodied policeman entered and shouted at Zuberi:
– “What do you do for work?”
– “Geologist!” – I answered.
– “Shut your mouth, no one asked you!”
– “A geologist discovers the riches of the underground!” – Zuberi replied fearfully, noticing the criminal expression of the guard. The guard kicked him with all his might behind the ear, saying:
-“Now go and discover the riches of the underground.”
He closed the door and left. I had closed my eyes, and it was a wonder my heart didn’t stop. Fearfully, I opened my eyes and saw Zuberi lying there, limbs spread out, with a stream of blood flowing from his mouth. I tried to move, to help him, but I was hanging from the window. My eyes dimmed. My mind darkened. I wanted to scream so the whole world could hear: Crime! Universal crime! They killed Zuberi! They killed culture, they killed science, and they killed life.
The door opened again. The policeman who had struck him entered with two others. They looked at him.
– “The dog is dead!” – said the one who hit him. They grabbed him by the feet, dragged him out, and closed the door, leaving me in the cell with the bloodthirsty ghost of the time that sealed the shame of this century.
How life is! I was plunged into the space of horror when I heard this conversation outside my cell:
– “You are a Bey from Vlora, eh?”
– “C’est vrai – it is true, I am a Bey…!”
– “Bloodsucker!”
– “Parole d’honneur – word of honor, I have never drunk blood, but I have always drunk champagne… Cordon Rouge champagne…”
I heard shouts. The guards took him, dragged him to the vat of filthy water, dipped him in headfirst, and mocked him:
– “Drink, drink ‘Cordon-Piss’ champagne!”
(A parenthesis for the finale of the tragedy: “Eat in the next world!”)
At the gate of the prison courtyard, every lunch, a long line of wives, brides, and daughters of prisoners formed: holding sefertases (food containers) in their hands, bringing lunch. The containers were lined up there, and some officers, as if parading, would read the names of the prisoners. When they saw a container with the name Uan Filipi, they kicked it; the food spilled out, and the container rolled away empty.
The officer told them: “Get out of here and don’t come back, for he has received the bullet he deserved!” Uan’s wife and sister, without making a sound, clung to each other and began the walk back home, heading uphill. If you looked at them, it seemed as if they were swaying like boats in a storm, navigating the zigzags of terror, grief, and death! A scene that I believe has never appeared on any screen in the world.
Question: – And how did you see this scene?
Answer: – When I was released, my Safo told me… she told me with grief about her calvary and that of the other prisoners’ families. (The poor mothers, the wretched wives… what their eyes have seen and how they survived the poison they drank.) During my three-year imprisonment, in deep isolation, only Safo had the right to bring the food container to the prison door, without ever meeting me. Three years.
Question: – Did you ever lose the hope to live?
Answer: – One afternoon, the prison director came with my main interrogator and removed my chains. The waves of suffering are so fierce that one cannot tell where the wind pushes: toward life or toward death. They took me to the last cell across from the latrines. I knew that cell was for those about to be executed. They put me inside, bound my hands and feet again, and left. There were three others there, whose faces I could not distinguish. They were certain they were going to be executed. They didn’t speak for several minutes, and then I heard a voice:
-“Why are you sentenced to death?”
-“As an American agent! And you?”
– “Us?” – he paused. – “Me…?”
He told how he had spoken with a friend about Enver Hoxha, but in court, they didn’t bring that charge; they told him “sold-out agent!”
-“I know well that I was sentenced for what I said about Enver Hoxha.” – And he continued: – “As far as I know, twelve people have been shot so far…! Who knows how many others will be? These two were sentenced to death because they burned the Yugoslav flag, which was hanging to the right of our flag at the Ministry of National Defense. They had admitted their guilt and said in the courtroom that they did not regret their act at all, as Yugoslavia rules here, not the Tirana government.”
I listened to the words and sighs of men waiting momentarily to be shot. I was deeply moved by what one said (faces were not visible; it was dark):
– “I was not killed in the war by fascists and Nazis, two years in the mountains, but I am being killed by the bullet of my comrades!”
A rustling was heard at the small window.
It was the wings of a bird, perhaps a bat…!
– “They are going to kill us, the news has come!” – said one.
I asked how the news had come. In that cell of those sentenced to death, a prophecy remained: when that night bird comes and beats its wings against the window bars – the size of a book page – the executioners come and take the victims to the riverbank, to the execution site…!
And indeed, around ten in the morning, the cell door opened, and they called the one who had spoken ill of Enver and the two who had burned the Yugoslav flag.
– “We shall meet in the next world, if there isn’t another Enver there to boil us in the vats of hell…!”
THE STRANGE TURN!
In the evening, they called me up to the administration. There was Nesti Kerenxhi, Deputy Minister of Internal Affairs. He spoke to me softly. He questioned me, and I replied:
– “I only speak with Koçi Xoxe!”
– “Koçi Xoxe cannot come here!”
– “Take me to him. I will only speak with him.”
– “You are asking for impossible things.”
– “Can I write him a letter then?”
I knew Nesti. I knew him well and he knew me well. He thought for a moment and told me:
– “Write the letter.”
They gave me a piece of paper and a fountain pen, and I wrote:
“Koçi! If any thread of friendship remains from our past, I beg you for two things:
- Give the order to shoot me as soon as possible, for I cannot endure the grave insults and inhuman torture.
- If you want to know why I am here, ask Nesti: ‘Why?’”
Nesti read it and said:
-“What, you didn’t know about the secret organization of the deputies?” – Then I told him that truly, I had never even heard of that organization. He took the letter.
I was taken to another cell, across from Hasan Reçi’s. In that wing, in a row, were the cells of my comrades: Spiro Ruço, Spiro Dhima, Uan Filipi, Islam Radovicka, Sinan Gjoni, Kolë Berisha…!
They bound my feet and hands behind my back, and I lay on the floor, dazed and battered. I thought: How strong a human is! I believed the strongest animal in the universe was a normal human.
As it seemed, Nesti Kerenxhi was still upstairs, so they took these comrades one by one to the administration. This continued the next day: the comrades were questioned by Nesti. The day after that, I was called up again. Only the director and Nesti Kerenxhi were there.
– “I delivered the letter to Koçi…,” – he looked at me with a human eye, – “and he said: ‘Tell Petro to sleep peacefully…’ Do you understand me?”
When I left, he shook my hand. And when the door closed, as my knees buckled from a sudden sensation, I heard Nesti’s voice telling the director:
– “Into Petro Marko’s cell, no officer or investigator is to enter without Koçi’s permission. The food brought from his home, deliver it untouched – even the cigarettes! Koçi ordered me…!”
I walked down the stairs slowly. I heard the voice of Hasan Reçi from the cell opposite mine:
– “Petro, if you get out alive, take care of my daughter. She is seven months old…!”
And that dawn, the death notice came…! Hasan Reçi, Uan Filipi, Spiro Ruço, Sinan Gjoni, Islam Radovicka, Kolë Berisha – I believe eight people – they took them and directed them to the riverbank, where they were shot…
I am fully convinced that I owe my life to Koçi Xoxe.
I communicated with Safo by means of thin, almost invisible writing made with the tip of a needle on the rim of the aluminum sefertas lid. In short, we had discovered a secret, original communication. Briefly, I made my condition known. She would ask questions. When my comrades were shot, I wrote: “I am saved!”
And two days before, when Kerenxhi came and told me that Koçi had instructed me “to sleep peacefully, give me the food untouched, and no one enter my cell without Koçi’s order,” I had written to Safo on the rim of the lid: “I think I am saved!” Now that I truly wasn’t shot like the others, I wrote again: “I am saved for you… who have suffered more than I!”
Question: – What happened next?
Answer: – They came to the cell, removed my leg irons, and took me to the corridor where many other prisoners were. They tied us two by two. They tied me to Tika Tezhaj, who, smiling bitterly, said: “You here too?” Then, when they tightened the chains on our hands, he added laughing: “You have become so insensitive that you didn’t even sigh. My bone broke from the tightening of the chain!”
We were many: all like skeletons. They took us outside. Where were they taking us? We couldn’t speak, as they gave a strict order: “If anyone opens their mouth, we will cut out their tongue!” Tika looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. Tika was a friend I knew well: a very wealthy man who had helped the war effort immensely with money and by transporting wounded partisans and weapons because he had his own car. We understood. They were taking us to the Old Prison. And indeed, they took us to the Old Prison, to the upper floor. They put us in a large kaush (communal cell) where others were too…!
LIFE IN THE OLD PRISON
Two great joys:
- Moving to the Old Prison, without chains, with comrades, and with books.
- The other great joy: executions were stopped by a decision of the Plenum! Thus, many comrades waiting for execution like Ing. Andrea Xega and others, escaped death.
They put us in a cell near the former hospital, which had now been turned into a translation office. There I met my old comrades like Demir Godelli, Koço Boshnjaku, Hito Sadiku, Nexhmi Ballka, and many, many others who had escaped death. Here, after a long time, I saw people who could laugh, who made jokes, who read books, who translated world literature for government literary institutions. For me and for all those who came from the hell of the New Prison, this was a half-liberation.
Stefo Grabocka came from the Ministry of the Interior and met me. He said: “When Koçi Xoxe returned from Korça, he was surprised that you had been arrested. He gathered the deputy ministers and asked: ‘Who gave the order to arrest Petro Marko?’ And one of them said: ‘Order from above…!’”
Regarding the prisoners, there were two opinions:
- One opinion: How is it possible that Petro Marko is here?! (This was expressed by the Minister of Defense, Beqir Balluku, when he visited the prison. When he saw me, he said: “Look, who have they arrested! The Spanish fighter…?”)
- The other opinion: Those who knew the matter well said: “How did this one escape the firing squad?!”
In this new environment among people, I learned that the Trial of the Deputies had taken place, and all my friends with whom I had associated and exchanged thoughts before my arrest had been arrested and shot. Deputy Shefqet Beja had been hanged in the wood yard. Selaudin Toto, Enver Sazani, Gjergj Kokoshi, and many others had been shot. They had hoped that democracy would be established in Albania. For me, it was a very heavy blow.
I gathered with Demir Godelli and Koço Boshnjaku; I stayed side by side with them and ate the bread brought from home with them. Koço Boshnjaku had been in KONARE, and then went to the Soviet Union, where I believe he served as the Consul of Albania. It seems he had also tried to send some Soviet ships with wheat to Durrës; he had collaborated with Kostë Kolombo, who had a bakery in Odessa. This Kostë Kolombo had also come to Spain.
They say that when the Germans occupied Odessa, he wrote to a friend in Albania from Paris, where he was living: “I will go to Odessa, for perhaps I will find my bakery now that there are no more Bolsheviks!” Poor Kostë! He hoped that after all this time and changes in Russia, he would find his bakery in Odessa…!? About this Kostë, Koço Boshnjaku told us many jokes and was surprised that even he had come as a volunteer to Spain! I had known Demir since 1932, and I can say he was the first teacher of communism in Albania. He also told many anecdotes about Fan Noli in Berlin and how communism, with Stalin at the head, carried out propaganda. I’ll tell you something funny:
In Hamburg, May 1st was being celebrated; workers were celebrating their holiday; they had gathered in a theater and were speaking in turn, comrades from many nationalities. Two Germans went to a Chinese steamer. They said to a Chinese sailor: “Come with us and for one hour, we will give you five dollars!” The Chinese sailor told them that in an hour his ship would depart. They told him: “We only want you for half an hour.” They took him to the theater where the workers’ meeting was being held, and those presiding over the meeting said that this was the representative of the Chinese working class.
The Chinese man laughed and said: “Please, don’t let my ship leave!” – In his language, and those on the podium “translated”: “He says that he brings greetings from the multi-million Chinese working class!” Applause, and amidst the applause, the Chinese man ran off, lest he miss the steamer that was about to depart…!
Demir told us again that story in Moscow, for May 1st, when they took him to speak on a podium before the workers of a factory, and the translator, who did not know a single word of Albanian, pretended to translate what Demir was saying, and the mass applauded stormily.
After the speech, amidst applause and handshakes, a lady had approached him, who didn’t seem to belong to that crowd of workers, and had addressed him in French: “Open your eyes and see what this inhuman system has reduced us to! Why does Europe just look on? Or is she too waiting for this ‘red and bloody paradise’?” Demir was shaken. But those near him pulled him away and told him she was a bourgeois agent.
– “We were blind! We didn’t see what was happening!” – said Koço.
And we talked calmly. Koço was the most eloquent and experienced:
– “From the Adriatic to the Pacific Ocean, more than a billion people believed in communism, and now, under the red regime, how many millions suffer and die like us! Catastrophe! Stalin alone, they say, has eliminated millions. Here in our country, compared to the population, even more have been eliminated and persecuted. Why? It has its reasons.
This system here has nothing in common fundamentally with our ideal. This system is being implemented according to the directives of Serbian agents, centuries-old enemies of Albania: Ranković, Miladin, Dušan, and others, who are interested in seeing this country this way. The riverbank was filled with the corpses of intellectuals. Words are circulating that the lists for arrests and eliminations come from Belgrade!”
Every day, we held low-voiced conversations in the corner of the wide corridor on the second floor of the prison, in front of the translation office. Koço also translated from Russian. The texts came from the Ministry of Education. There, Mirash Ivanaj also translated from Latin or Ancient Greek; Dhimitër Pasko (Mitrush Kuteli), Gjergj Bubani, and many others translated there too. Memorie.al
